"Here already? Godma?" Christine slumped against the wall, as if two successive blows had stolen her breath. "Has Triumphant Fort truly fallen?!"

  "I cannot say with certainty, my lady." Gondolin directed Off-Key and Hard Stone with a sharp jerk of his chin. "But Godman soldiers prowling these streets—that much is beyond question."

  The washerwomen hastened to the stove. "Mind your grip. Don't scald yourselves." Gondolin heard the concern in his own voice and found it almost superfluous. "Throw open the casements and peer cautiously outward. The moment you spot Godmans—pour. Direct hits are preferable, but even near misses serve our purpose. Timing is paramount. And keep your heads withdrawn—don't linger exposed."

  "I fear I'll drench our own people," the veiled woman murmured.

  "That would be a shame, aye," Gondolin replied, though the grim smile didn't touch his eyes. "Assuming there are any of 'our people' left out there to drench."

  Christine was first to unleash the scalding deluge—nearly pitching the massive iron cauldron out with its contents. "I struck them!" She dropped the vessel with a thunderous clang and stamped her feet in savage delight. "Caught several at once!"

  Imperial soldiers began to crowd the narrow street—mostly foot soldiers, a few mounted knights forcing their way through. They hadn't expected the scalding reception raining down, and their howls of pain and curses rose in a ceaseless wave. Throughout every tenement near Spiderweb Street, windows transformed into floodgates, discharging torrents of scalding fury. The veiled woman and Christine abandoned all pretense of careful targeting. Any movement below became their mark.

  Soldiers writhed upon the cobblestones, thrashing and clawing desperately at their faces. Most suffered severe burns to eyes and facial features. The fortunate ones escaped with blistered forearms and exposed flesh. The less fortunate were already shedding layers of skin. "Well struck," Christine declared to her companion. The veiled woman acknowledged with the barest whisper of a smile.

  Off-Key diligently fed the flames. The kindling was wretched quality, consumed rapidly without lasting heat. Gondolin and Hard Stone trotted back inside. "It's working," he grunted, giving the washerwomen a look that might have been approval. "But more are coming. Keep at it."

  "Ah..." Christine's gaze drifted across the depleted ranks of kettles and jars. "Our water reserves dwindle dangerously, sir."

  "I shall fetch more," Off-Key announced, arranging the wood and volunteering without hesitation.

  "Send Hard Stone instead," Gondolin countermanded firmly. "The lower floors have become treacherous. Godmans could breach our defenses at any moment."

  Hard Stone raised his hand in acknowledgment. His chest still heaved with exertion; stair-climbing remained the eternal bane of dwarvenkind. Rose, who had remained motionless atop her storage chest, lifted her tear-stained face from her hands and surveyed the room with newfound awareness. She wiped away the streaks of tears and smeared cosmetics, rose purposefully to her feet, approached the group with determined strides, and seized the largest iron vessel without a word.

  "What do you think you're—" The question died unfinished as the prostitute darted toward the stairs, kettle clutched in white-knuckled hands.

  "This gesture hardly purchases our forgiveness," the veiled woman remarked coldly.

  Until Rose's return, Gondolin nursed his concern silently, masking his distraction by methodically cleaning and arranging his weapons. The washerwomen seemed caught in a fever, heaving stools, splintered tables, anything they could lift, out the window with a wild energy. Arrows sometimes zipped through the opening, forcing them to duck back for a second, but then they were right back at it, raining down their few possessions onto the street below.

  "These objects can be repaired—acquired anew," Christine declared, her eyes blazing with zealous intensity. "But once life departs a body, nothing remains." Gondolin detected the subtle barb beneath her words and recognized its dual meaning.

  Rose forced the door open with her shoulder and staggered in bearing a cauldron brimming with clear water. Gondolin estimated that, proportionally speaking, it might require four dwarves of his stature to transport such a burden up six flights at speed. The prostitute deposited her load, then retreated silently to her contemplative perch. Only then did Gondolin truly take in Rose's state. She was soaked through, her wet dress clinging to the heavy curves of her breasts, the soft roundness of her belly, the strong lines of her thighs. She sat back down on the chest, arms wrapped tight around herself. He noticed her nose was crooked now, with a smear of dried blood underneath it.

  Another scalding cauldron descended upon the Imperials. This time, Gondolin firmly vetoed Rose's attempt to retrieve more water. The instant her bare toes contacted the floor, he intervened. "I'll permit no more brawling on your behalf, my lady," he stated, glancing meaningfully at her injured nose, "nor any further plunges into water reservoirs."

  Hard Stone departed with the iron pot clanking against his thigh. The veiled woman and Christine continued their aerial bombardment of the Godman invaders, the box-room now standing virtually barren. "A moment." Inspiration flashed across Christine's features. She jabbed an accusatory finger toward Rose. "You. Whore. Approach."

  Rose raised her head, her gaze vacant and lifeless.

  "Stand. Don't force me to repeat myself." She unwrapped her protective embrace and complied wordlessly. Gondolin suspended his hatchet maintenance. Off-Key abandoned her bundle of kindling. Both prepared themselves for whatever might transpire. "That substantial chest of yours could surely obliterate a considerable number."

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  Rose became a statue, every muscle petrified. She had sought atonement, craved forgiveness, and thus volunteered for water duty. "Please... don't," she whispered, the backs of her calves registering the chest's cold metallic surface. She desperately wanted their understanding—but not purchased at such a price.

  "If you won't throw it down yourself, then we'll help you," the veiled woman added, her voice cold and hard as iron.

  "To what end?" Gondolin's gentle protest vanished beneath the women's forceful declarations.

  "Understand this, Rose," Christine continued inexorably. "For mere survival, we've surrendered garments, furnishings—even personal adornments—not unlike those secreted within your chest. The time has come for your sacrifice." The corners of her eyes creased with delicate lines of cruelty. "We've already dispatched numerous items—from humble baskets to sturdy stools. They've painted our Godman vermin a most satisfying crimson. I suspect your substantial coffer would prove even more effective."

  Rose remained motionless. "I beg you." The prostitute's voice emerged barely audible, but the raw desperation in her eyes pierced Gondolin's heart. "Surely another solution exists..."

  "Master dwarf," the veiled woman sighed wearily. "This remains our domestic concern." Gondolin sealed away any further protests he might have offered.

  Whether Christine demonstrated proficiency in laundry, Gondolin could not determine. Patience, however, clearly eluded her character. She smashed a small medicinal vial intended for the window and advanced purposefully toward the immobilized prostitute. "I shall assist you, Rose. Allow me to help."

  Gondolin witnessed the unfolding tableau in its entirety. He observed the prostitute's expression transform—from desperate hope to profound despair to something altogether harder and more resolute. "Halt your approach." Her voice seemed to emerge from a different throat entirely. Christine froze in her tracks.

  "What did you say?" The washerwoman appeared genuinely astounded that the prostitute had discovered a voice capable of command.

  "I instructed you to remain where you stand. Advance no further." The same unfamiliar timbre resonated through the room. "I'll deliver another slap powerful enough to permanently distort your face—those pristine teeth you so proudly display, that tongue that has sampled more male anatomy than you could possibly enumerate—I'll send them flying across this room..." Despite her threatening words, she could not force herself to move forward.

  Then, as if orchestrated, everyone held their breath simultaneously. Rose lifted her treasure chest—the repository of her entire existence—and proceeded deliberately toward the window. A golden chain dangled over the container's edge, adorned with azure sapphires. She passed Christine without acknowledgment. The washerwoman's gaze clung desperately to her; the prostitute offered nothing in return. Rose's hair momentarily brushed against Christine's nose—creating a fleeting itch that gradually burrowed deeper, settling into her conscience.

  Her pace was agonizingly deliberate—slower than an elderly dwarf navigating stairs. To Gondolin, the chest appeared not so much carried in her arms as shackled to her very soul. Yet this burden neither diminished her resolve nor the dignified pride with which she bore it forward. She reached the window beside the stove, positioned the coffer upon the sill, closed her eyes, and drew a profound breath. A thick, fir-wood crossbow bolt embedded itself in the masonry beside the casement. She remained oblivious to the danger.

  Off-Key completely forgot the kindling bundle at her feet. Gondolin slid his razor-edged hatchet back into its sheath. They sensed an imminent, irreversible moment approaching. Rose finally initiated movement. She began elevating the ponderous chest with excruciating slowness, her arms extending outward, offering the treasure to the emptiness beyond the window.

  "Release it," commanded the veiled woman from the adjacent window, arms folded sternly. "Simply let it fall, Rose. Then this ordeal concludes. From that moment forward, we resume our sisterhood."

  "Go on," Christine urged, her tone unexpectedly gentle. Their shared poverty had taught them the profound significance of relinquishment.

  She began to tremble, great shudders racking her body. Maybe it was the weight of the chest. Maybe it was the weight of everything else. Tears streamed down her face. The washerwomen's eyes bored into her back like spear points. There was nowhere to run.

  Gondolin discovered himself advancing toward her, unable to comprehend his own motivation. He felt drawn by some inexplicable force. Later, he would attribute this impulse to destiny's hand.

  Without warning, Rose released her grip on the chest containing her life's earnings. Off-Key emitted a piercing scream—unmistakably her own. Gondolin executed the two most expansive strides of his existence, propelled himself behind the prostitute, and locked his powerful arms around her left leg. "DON'T DO THIS!" he roared, scrambling desperately. "That box isn't worth dying for!"

  "Let go." Her voice had been stripped of virtually all emotion. "You should be the one relinquishing your grip." His hold weakened progressively; the saturated fabric tore with minimal resistance. Rose's midsection collided with the windowsill; half her body now suspended perilously over the abyss. "Don't—release your hold!"

  The garment yielded completely. Gondolin, anticipating this failure, executed his contingency. He lunged forward, propelled himself upward, and positioned his torso above the sill. Then he encircled her waist with every ounce of his considerable strength and braced both boots against the wall beneath the window. The prostitute folded across the frame like a discarded rag doll. "ASSIST ME, DAMN YOU ALL!" Gondolin's throat ravaged itself with the force of his bellow. "OFF-KEY!"

  Off-Key stumbled forward and embraced Rose's left leg as Gondolin had demonstrated. "AND YOU TWO!" he snarled at Christine, his gaze incinerating with accusation.

  "...Don't proceed with this foolishness, Rose," Christine remarked with a disconcerting smile. "It's merely a container of trinkets. Hardly worth shattering your mortal vessel, wouldn't you agree? Didn't you mention having a child somewhere?"

  "APPROACH AND RENDER AID, WASHERWOMAN!" The command obliterated her smile, leaving her expression hardened like forged steel. She exchanged a meaningful glance with the veiled woman before both began advancing toward the window with deliberate, molasses-slow movements.

  The identical treacherous fabric. The identical tearing failure. The identical fatal miscalculation. The cloth within Off-Key's desperate grasp separated once more—and she lacked Gondolin's intuitive timing and superior reach. She strained beyond her capacity and managed only to grasp the prostitute's bare foot. She believed she might maintain this tenuous hold for perhaps a single heartbeat. In reality, she sustained it for three.

  Three precious seconds—sufficient time for the washerwomen to seize any portion of Rose's body within reach and extract her from certain death six stories below. Yet they hesitated—whether from sluggish reflexes or deliberate choice remained unclear.

  Half-suspended in midair, the prostitute twisted her neck toward the dwarf whose face had reddened with exertion, and uttered her final words: "I truly have a child. Truly."

  Then, there was only torn, wet cloth left in Off-Key's grasp. And Rose, along with her chest, plummeted towards the street below.